


That week in May

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adultery, Lost Love, M/M, Marriage, Memories, Missed Opportunities, POV John, Pining, Post-Case, Regret, secrecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 11:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20814611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: John finds an old photo of him and Sherlock. It unveils a lot of supressed memories from a different time in their lives when everything was equally carefree as well as complicated. John ponders the impact of the choices he made back then.





	That week in May

A jolt shoots through him as he sees the photo.

It's staring righ at him and he slowly puts his hand out to reach for it.

Looking at it immediately takes him back to that day and an onslaught of mixed emotions wash over him.

It's of him and Sherlock, standing slightly further apart then what they usually did when posing for pictures. Sherlock in a white crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up, the curls in slight disarray. 

The face relaxed. 

That’s the key element that makes this photo stand out from all the other photos that exist of the two of them.  
Sherlock always looks detached in all the others, like he’s mentally thinking of something else and wishes for the moment to be over. A poseur, knowing he looks good and what sort of image he wants to project, not bothering with anything more than moving on. 

In this photo he looks like he doesn’t think at all, merely exists. 

John on the other hand looks like he’s cut in stone. Very serious, a frown across the forehead, lips tight. He looks...interrupted.

Lestrades comes up behind his shoulder and peers down at the photo.

He immediately cracks a dry smile when seeing it.

“Gosh, when’s that?”

John stares at the photo as the memories wash over him. 

He remembers this day vividly.

It was the beginning of May. Two weeks before his wedding to Mary.  
It had been a surprisingly warm spring that year, hence the rolled-up shirtsleeves on Sherlock. Sherlock always lived in that Belstaff coat of his when out and about, his armour of sorts, he knew he cut a good silhouette in it. But this particular day the weather had been unusually hot, piercing rays of sunshine through that window behind their backs in the photo. 

Lestrade takes the photo and brings it up closer to his eyes to examine it.

“He looks a bit different,” he comments, “sort of...I don’t know, carefree perhaps? Who took this? I don’t recall it.”

John swallows before replying. His throat feel slightly constricted.

“You did. It’s about ten years ago. Watford I think. That triple murder case that turned out to be nothing but some nutter trying to get Sherlock’s attention by staging crime scenes and calling Scotland Yard in order for you to bring your consultant.”

Lestrade chuckles as he begins to remember as well. 

“Ah, yes, I recall now. Sherlock took it all rather well considering the circumstances. He was rude to the bloke of course but he wasn’t as scathing as I would have expected him to be.”

John knows why.

Mere seconds before Lestrade had entered the room where the photo was taken, he and Sherlock had been engaged in a passionate kiss, John’s hands deeply buried in Sherlock’s silky black curls, the sun warming their bodies as he had press them up against that window.  
They had broken apart at the sound of Lestrades approaching steps and sort of ended up further from each other than strictly necessary, just out of some silly act of decorum. 

He remembers that Lestrade had been in a rather elevated mood despite the total failure regarding the case. Or perhaps because of it. Better for it to have been an imposter than three actual victims. At least according to him.

John remembers Lestrade saying something about Sherlock striking a rather dramatic figure against the lighting from the window and had raised a camera to take a picture of it. It had been Anderson’s camera, the one he used while working, taking photos of crime scenes. Why Lestrade had it, John can’t recall, he just did and he was the one to take the photo. 

It had been Anderson’s first case since being back on the force after the whole Moriarty/Richard Brook fiasco. John had not expected to see him grace another crime scene ever again, but Sherlock had been surprisingly calm about it. Maybe there was a truth in what Lestrade had once said about him, that he liked to have all the familiar faces around.

“I need to remember this case for the days when I’m old and grey and police work is far behind me. I need to remember that there were sunny days as well,” Lestrade had said and then ordered John to come join the photo, probably more out of politeness than actual need for him to be in the picture. It would have seemed rude to not include him as he was standing there anyway.

John remembers how guilty he had felt at that moment. The kiss still tingling on his lips, thoughts of Sherlock and Mary fighting for dominance in the beehive inside his head. 

He had been the one to initiate the kiss. 

He and Sherlock had been sleeping with each other since March that year so it wasn’t a spur of the moment kind of thing. He had known what he was doing and Sherlock had been nothing but obliging.

Then John went ahead and married Mary anyway.  
That had been a mistake. He had known it all along, before, during and after the wedding. There was so much regret attached to that memory that it made it difficult to revisit. He seldom did, because what was done was done and he couldn’t change it anyway. 

He never knew if Sherlock had expected another outcome. They had never discussed it afterwards. That kiss had not even been the last one between them.  
They had gone straight back to Baker Street and fucked each other later that same day and had kept doing it right until the day before the wedding. Afterwards it never happened again, neither the kissing nor the sex.

“Funny that he had this developed and put among his personal items,” Lestrade muses, looking at the picture. “But I guess, it _does_ make sense in a very roundabout twisted way. He never truly forgave himself for his part in Sherlock’s downfall.”

John nods, still trapped in the memories of that day in May ten years ago, not present to reminisce about a man he never truly forgave either. He doesn’t care why Anderson has this photo in his possession, he doesn’t even care that the man is now dead and that is the very reason he is standing here looking at old memorabilia along with Lestrade, while waiting for Sherlock to come back from the evidence room where he went over an hour ago to collect something. 

He can understand the sense of regret though. Anderson had felt it for a completely different reason, but the emotion is probably the same as it is for him. The wish for actions once made to become undone. To be given a second chance.

Lestrade taps the photo over Sherlock’s tranquil face and then puts it inside the pocket of his coat.

“I’ll think I hold on to this. It’s not like anyone’s going to claim any of this anyway. Anderson didn’t have many people in his life these last couple of years. His ex-wife remarried and the parents died years ago I think.”

John feels secretly happy that he doesn’t have to look at the photo anymore, he doesn’t need any further reminders of choices made in the past. He has more than enough regrets staring him straight in the face whenever he decides to join Sherlock on a case anyway. Like he had today. Before he got stuck here, in Anderson’s old room with Lestrade, facing ghosts from the past.

“I think I’ll show it to Sherlock later, at home. Interesting to see if he remembers this day," Lestrade says. "As it was such a fiasco casewise he could very well have deleted it. It’s a nice picture though. He looks very lovely in it.”

And with that Lestrade taps the front of his pocket with a look of affection on his features before his attention turns once more to the box of old items that’s still in front of them. John silently takes a deep breath to brace himself and then he turn his attention to the box as well, letting the memory linger for as long as it takes for the dull pain to slowly subside.


End file.
